I drown in my heart in oceans of fire
beneath a scolding sky that mocks the
very ground I walk upon. Wishing I could
understand the various emotions that
strangle my point of view.
In wonder, I cross myself and begin
to pray the words I have been taught
to mumble. I am fleeing the panic that
has set itself upon my soul like a
gripping knife that slices meaningfully
into my vision of reality.
There are pictures on the walls and
as I turn and turn around the world I
cannot focus on the contents. Seeing only
the wooden frames I light the match
of reflection and trust only in
the rejection of purity.
Nothing matters to the dying flower
that has been uprooted from the
damp soil of yesterday. Hopes of
tomorrow being a better place
have been gently removed from
the pencilled papers of harmony.
There are suggestions made.
I have heard them all.
Strong points of view that
attempt to strangle my beliefs
in a cross-current of insisting
ambiguities. Yawning, I find
I am bored and in this I miss
my hurting hands which have
been burnt in the flames.